


Keeping Up Appearances

by echoinautumn (maybetwice)



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Covert Operation, Drunken Kissing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Gen Work, Kissing, Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Kissing, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/pseuds/echoinautumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gil and Bang come home after one of their misadventures goes awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Up Appearances

**Author's Note:**

> I love the canon allusions to the bizarre adventures Gil goes on while at University, and the established friendship/camaraderie between him and Bang. So, this happened.
> 
> Written in good fun for a fic-tac-toe tournament with lemonsharks on tumblr, the prompt being "A drunk kiss."

It’s half past one by the time Gil staggers back into his quarters, holding the door open for a giggling DuPree by slumping his body against it with one hand on the knob. She presses her entire body against his, leaning up with her lips parted and one hand sliding around toward Gil’s belt buckle. She smells faintly like smoke and, when she presses her mouth to his, tastes a lot like the wine they’ve been drinking through the evening. Gil’s fingers tremble a little, but he leans into it, his hand sliding downward from the small of her back as one of his classmates passes them with a disgusted squeak. Gil draws away from the kiss and, when he lowers his mouth on DuPree’s exposed neck, sees the scandalized boy cross himself just before he disappears into his apartments. 

He exhales into her perfumed neck. “It’s clear.”

DuPree peers down the hallway to check for anyone else watching them, then pulls her hand back and shoves him through the door. When the door closes, she breaks character, curls her hands into fists, and stalks toward the bedroom. Following silently, Gil notices that she favors her left side as she throws off the coat he gave her to cover the scant outfit she wore to the smoky cabaret, which is now torn indecently and soaked in blood. 

“Well, that was a productive evening,” he attempts, rolling his shoulders back and wincing at aching soreness that will have only intensified by morning.

“We didn’t learn _anything_ ,” DuPree snarls at him, dabbing her fingers in the sticky smear of blood on her ribs and scowling with pain. “And now this ridiculous Marquise Ivoire knows that you aren’t just some aristocratic libertine off at University.”

Gil closes his eyes to hide how badly he wants to roll them upward and lets her tear apart his wardrobe in her rage. Even if she turns her righteous fury on him, Gil is still reasonably certain that she was sent to Paris to protect him, or to kill anyone who discovers his identity before he reaches the age of majority. 

Then again, they have for years disagreed on the _details_ of DuPree’s assignment, and on the Baron’s intended definition of _safe_.

Sure enough, DuPree flings a roll of gauze at his head while he’s bent over to pull off his boots, and when he looks back toward her, she’s standing by his desk with a medical kit open and spread on top of his research notes.

“Get over here and help me,” she hisses. “This is your fault.”

“You did get to kill someone,” Gil offers helpfully and fishes out a bottle of antiseptic from the bag. DuPree eyes him with disdainful mistrust, particularly when he dampens the fabric with it and dabs some of the blood away. The long slash reaches from her belly to just below her breasts, but it’s shallow, a minion’s sloppy handwork in the service of the power-mad Spark of the week that had come too close to dispatching Gil.

DuPree scoffs, deliberately avoiding Gil’s eyes. “Don’t try to make me feel better. We blew our cover, and I _liked_ going to that cabaret.”

“Well, at least you got to see it catch fire,” Gil continues, shuffling through the bottles until he finds something to dull the pain, which he shoves into her hands and crouches down to wrap her side.

He waits until she doesn’t flinch when he puts even the slightest pressure on her side, and then peers up at her pinched expression.

“It wasn’t a waste, Bang,” he sighs. “I recognized the Marquise--she’s not a Marquise, by the way.”

“You did?” DuPree turns her face back toward him, eyes brightening with delight that Gil has only recently learned not to be frightened by. Not frightened for his own sake, anyway. 

“It’s the Lady Maglekilde,” Gil says, tying off the bandage and sitting back on his heels. “Who lives in Montmartre.”

DuPree looks at him like Christmas has come early.

“We’ll deal with her tomorrow,” Gil suggests, pushing onto his feet and swaying unsteadily. DuPree doesn’t seem to notice when she follows him toward the bed, peeling back the covers and falling into the most comfortable part of the bed with a self-satisfied expression. 

Gil doesn’t bother to complain that she’s making herself comfortable in his favorite part of _his_ bed, or to tell her that she doesn’t have to keep up the appearance of his mistress inside his apartments. He doesn’t even care that he’s still fully dressed, or that he should send some kind of communication to his father about Maglekilde, he just falls face first into the other pillow with a weak groan.

He’s almost asleep, already softly snoring, when DuPree gives him a nudge.

“Thanks, Gil. Tonight was fun.”

Then she yawns and flattens out over most of the bed, and falls asleep with her fingertips twitching and a lazy smile lingering. 

“And they call _me_ the mad boy,” Gil mumbles so she can’t hear, but he doesn’t mean it. Not really, anyway.


End file.
